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To a Writer of long Epitaphs.
FRIEND, in your Epitaphs I'm griev'd

So very much is said:

One half will never be believ'd,
The other never read.

To Mr. Thomson, who had procured the Author
a Benefit Night.


EFLECTING on thy worth, methinks I find
Thy various Seasons in their Author's mind.
Spring opes her blossoms various as thy muse
And, like thy soft compassion, sheds her dews.
Summer's hot drought in thy expression glows,
And o'er each page a tawny ripeness throws.
Autumn's rich fruits th' instructed reader gains,
Who tastes the meaning purpose of thy strains.
Winter-but that no semblance takes from thee:
That hoary season yields a type of me. [lay,
Shatter'd by Time's bleak storms I with ring
Leafless, and whit'ning in a cold decay!
Yet shall my propless ivy, pale and bent,
Bless the short sunshine which thy pity lent.

FLAVIA the least and slightest toy
Can with resistless art employ:
This fan, in meaner hands, would prove
An engine of small force in love;
Yet she, with graceful air and mien,
Not to be told, or safely seen,
Directs its wanton motions so,
Gives coolness to the matchless dame,
That it wounds more than Cupid's bow;
To ev'ry other breast a flame.

To the Author of an Epitaph on Dr. Mead. HACKETT. LEAD's not dead then, you say, only sleeping a little? [uttle: Why, egad! Sir, you've hit it off there to a Yet, friend, his awaking I very much doubtPluto knows whom he's got, and will ne'er let him out.

Lest these learn'd mates should want an offer-
The king himself did offer-what, I pray?
He offer d, twice or thrice, to go away,

A Country Parson's Answer to a young Lady who sent him her Compliments on the Ten of Hearts.

JOUR Compliments, dear lady, pray forbear; Old English services are more sincere. You send ten hearts; the tythe is only mine. Give me but one, and burn the other nine.

By Dr. DONNE. IAM unable, yonder beggar cries,

To stand or go. If he says true, he lies.

MOORE always smiles whenever he recites:
He smiles, you think, approving what he
And yet in this no vanity is shown; [writes:
Aindest man may like what's not his own.

To Mr. Pope.
WHILE malice, Pope, denies thy page
While critics and while bards in rage,
Its own celestial fire;
While way ward pens thy word assail,
Admiring, won't admire:
And envious tongues decry;
These times tho' many a friend bewail,
These times bewail not I.

But when the world's loud praise is thine,
And spleen no more shall blame;
When with thy Homer thou shalt shine
In one establish fame:

When none shall rail, and ev'ry lay

Devote a wreath to thee:

That day (for come it will)—that day
Shall I lament to see.

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To Lady Isabella Thynne, cutting Trees in Paper. WALLER.

FAIR hand, that can on virgin paper write,

Yet from the stain of ink preserve it white: Whose travel o'er that silver field does shos Like tracks of leverets in morning snow: Love's image thus in purest minds is wrong Without a spot or blemish to the thought. Strange, that your fingers should the pencil Without the help of colours or of oil? For tho' a painter boughs and leaves can r Tis yours alone to make them bend and sha Whose breath salutes your new-created g Like southern winds, and makes it gently Orpheus could make the forest dance, buty Can make the motion and the forest too. A poet, when he would describe his mind. Is, as in language, so in fame, confin'd: Your works are read wherever there are m So far the scissors goes beyond the pen.

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WHEN old Elijah, as the Scriptures say. Triumphant mounted to the realm of cay

His spirit doubled, and his cloak beside,
He gave Elisha, by long service tried.
Tristan from hence would fain example take
For honest Quinault, his disciple's sake:
But this, alas! injurious fate denied,
For Tristan poorer than a prophet died.
To Quinault thus the bard, expiring, spoke:
"My wit I leave thee-but I have no cloak."

Pox on't, quoth Time to Thomas Hearne,
Whatever I forget you learn.

Answered by Mr. WEST.
D-n it, quoth Hearne, in furious fret,
Whate'er 1 learn you soon forget.

Dr. ALDRICH's Five Reasons for Drinking. GOOD wine; a friend; or being dry;

Or lest we should be by and by;

Or, any other reason why.


THYRSIS, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain :
Like Phoebus sung the no less am'rous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely and as coy.
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues,
With numbers such as Phoebus' self might use;
All but the nymph who should redress his

Attend his passion, and approve his song:
Like Phoebus thus acquiring unsought praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.


O his death-bed poor Simon lies,
His spouse is in despair:
With frequent sobs and mutual cries
They both express their care.
A diff'rent cause, says Parson Sly,
The same effect may give;
Poor Simon fears that he shall die,
His wife that he may live.

Written on the Bed-chamber Daor of Charles II.

HERE lies our sovereign lord the King,

Whose word no man relies on;

He never savs a foolish thing,

Nor ever does a wise one.

To Phyllis

THAT little patch upon your face
Would seem a foil on one less fair;

On you it hides a killing grace,
And you in pity plac'd it there.

As afternoon one summer's day,

Venus stood bathing in a river;
Cupid a-shooting went that way,

New strung his bow, new fill'd his quiver, With skill he chose his sharpest dart; With all his might his bow he drew: Swift to his beauteous parent's heart The too well guided arrow flew. I faint! I die! the goddess cried:

O cruel! couldst thou find none other To wreak thy spleen on, parricide?

Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother. Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak; Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye; Alas! how easy, my mistake!

I took you for your likeness, Chloe,

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Sheffield approves, consenting Phoebus bends, Some rais'd aloft come tumbling down amain, And I and malice from this hour are friends, And fall so hard, they bound and rise again.

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DEPEND not upon verse for fame,
Tho' none can equal thine:
Our language never rests the same;
"Twill rise, or 't will decline.
Thy wreaths, in course of fleeting hours,
Too soon will be decay'd;"

But story lasts, though modern flow'rs
Of poetry inust fade.

A surer way then wouldst thou find
Thy glory to prolong
Whilst there remains amongst mankind
The sense of right and wrong?
Thy fame with nature's self shall end,
Let future times but know
That Atterbury was thy friend,
And Bentley was thy for.

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By Lord HERVEY.: POSSESS' of one great hall for state, Without one room to sleep or eat: How well you build, let flatt'ry tell, And all mankind how ill you dwell.

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Written in a Window of the Tower, over the

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HEARD last week, friend Edward, thou wa dead.

I'm very glad to hear it too, cries Ned.

Name of R. Walpole, confined in the same FRIEND Isaac, 'tis strange, you, that live so

Room, Ann. Dom. 1712. LANSDOWNE,

GOOD unexpected, evil unforeseen,

near Bray,

Should not set up the sign of the Vicar;

Appears by turns, as fortune shifts the Tho' it may be an odd one, you cannot but say It must needs be a sign of good liquor.


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Our thoughts are settled, and intent out look INDEED, Master Poet, your reason's but poor; On female idleness his power relies, On the instructive verse and moral book;

For the Vicar would think it a sin

To stay, like a booby, and lounge at the door; 'Twere a sign 'twas bad liquor within.

By a Porter, on the Gin Act. To a Great Man.
WHY will you make us cooly think?

If you would govern, we must drink.

Giles Jolt.

GILES JOLT as sleeping in his cart he lay,
Some waggish pilt'rers stole his team away.
Giles wakes, and cries-What's here? Ods-
dickin! what?

Why how now? am I Giles, or am I not?
If he, I've lost six geldings, to my smart;
If not-odsbuddikins! I've found a cars.

To Zoilus. JosTAH RELPH.
ITH industry I spread your praise,
With equal you my censure blaze;
But, faith! 'tis all in vain we do,
The world nor credits me nor you.

Milton. DRYDEN.

THREE poets in three distant ages born,
'Greece, Italy, and England did adorn :
The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd;
The next in majesty, in both the last.
The force of nature could no farther go!
To make a third, she join'd the other two.

On the Duchess of Marlborough's Offer of 5001.
for the best Poem on the Duke s Actions.
FIVE hundred pounds! too small a boon
To put the poet's muse in tone,

That nothing might escape her;
should she attempt the heroic story
Of the illustrious Churchili's glory,

It scarce would buy the paper.

Scotland. CLEVELAND. HAD Cain been a Scot, God would have alter'd his doom; [at home. Not fore'd him to wander, but confin'd him


Tuts to the Muses spoke the Cyprian dame:

Adorn my altars, and revere my name; My son shall else assume his potent darts, Twang goes the bow! my girls, have at your


But when he finds us studying hard he flies.

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On Michael Angelo's famous Piece of the Coucifixion, who stabbed a Person that he might do it more naturally.” Dr. YOUNG. WHILST his Redeemer nit the canvass dies,

Stabbitat his feet his brother weltring The Muses answer'd-Venus, we deride The daring artist, ehells serene, flies; The vagrant's malice, and his mother's pride. Views the pale cheek, and the distorted nien; Send him to nvmphs who sleep in Ida's shade, the drains off life by drops 2 and, deaf to cries, To the loose duace and wanton taasquerade:Examines evry spirita, it flies;

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